As the warm, orange sun broke the threshold that was the early morning horizon, the streets of Tokonosu City awakened. Laborers and students alike rose from the plush confines of their warm beds, groggy and sluggish, lamenting the day of work ahead of them, but still willing to get up and move, either out of routine, or for the faint, unlikely eventuality that they'd find themselves prosperous on this new day. Soon, the people found themselves moving quicker, and society began its normal, monotonous daily functions. Students headed off to school, some with a wave to their parents as they walked leisurely to their destination, others with a wedge of toasted grain clenched between their teeth as they ran like the early Spring wind.
On one particularly silent street, bereft of the usual city commotion, a single student walked, a low tapping in his gait. Short, black hair rested atop his head, and on his face he wore an uninterested, angry knit in his brows that belied the feeling of boredom and routine within. His hands rested at his sides, fingers curled only slightly out of habit. He wore the standard Fujimi Academy uniform, though that did nothing to make his appearance more friendly. In fact, his complexion—darker, tanned skin and facial structure of a foreigner did the opposite.
If one were to take a single glance at the young man, they would immediately assume that he was an inherently angry individual—which was, luckily, somewhat mitigated by the fact that he wore glasses with perfectly spherical lenses. But that is not the case with Soryan Ung.
The angered look in his eyes was simply his resting face, though, at the moment, this was exemplified by the situation surrounding his current position; despite loathing the idea of waking up early to attend academy, the young man found himself outside, tired, and walking the journey to school anyways. Adding onto his irritation was the damned uniform that clothed him—even as the day got brighter and the sun grew warmer, the star's influence did nothing to rid of the vexingly chilly breeze indicative of the early spring that, when blowing against the fabric of his uniform, made him incessantly itchy. It didn't help much that allergies were a thing, and goddamn what a fucking nuisance they are.
At least the weather itself was relatively cool—although he enjoyed cooler weather, Soryan had lived most of his life in Texas, where the weather decides what it wants to be on an entirely arbitrary basis, usually leaning towards the hotter side of the spectrum. Unfortunately, although Spring stayed cool in Japan, this damned uniform made him itchy, thus ruining one of the things he liked about the island nation. The young man scratched at a spot on his side, growling. Hailing from a family of Cambodian refugees, one would assume that he'd be immune to drastic seasonal changes, or at least seasonal allergies—especially since he'd moved to Japan little more than a year ago on account of his father's workplace in Okinawa; the man was an electrical engineer that had his work moved from the States to this island country after an unfortunate accident that stripped him of opportunity. Sadly, the young Cambodian wasn't immune.
Soryan sighed almost defeatedly, relenting on the useless itching. Now, much after his father moved here, Soryan was in Japan on some foreign exchange program, the details of which he cared not to remember. The move was rough at first—dangerously so, as Japanese people tended to be somewhat xenophobic. After a while though, he found a good bunch to hang with, and his peers got used to his presence. One year later, and the commotion died down entirely. Now, he was just a normal, third-year student at Fujimi Academy, just like everybody else.
Soon, he'd be going to college or university, where he'd hopefully be studying the ins and outs of computer programming and engineering. In all honesty, it wasn't quite a passion of his—it was something he'd gone with, following in his father's footstep. It was growing on him though. Perhaps, it might one day become a successful career. If not, there was always genetics.
Soryan let out a breath from his nostrils as he rolled his shoulders for the fifth time. As he slowly grew accustomed to the early morning sleepiness that clouded his thoughts, he let his mind wander—mostly towards what most would consider unimportant, nonsensical things; he thought about things like how long it'd be before he could get home and waste the next hour or two playing several successful matches of Team Fortress 2. It was much easier to pass the time this way, and sure enough, he eventually found himself walking through the front gates of Fujimi Academy, not a clue about how much time had passed since he'd started daydreaming.
Seeing the large, indoors complex ahead of him, Soryan wasted no more time about such thoughts, and he rushed to the calmer embrace of the academic edifice, ignoring the loud chattering of approaching students, as well as the few that, upon seeing the intrinsic glare in his eyes, moved for him. At that point, his actions were guided by habit, and he went through the motions of his daily routine. He ventured through the hallways until he found his locker, whereupon he tuned everything out. To his displeasure, he couldn't fully manage mindless autonomy, as the itch in his shoulders and calves screamed at him to do something.
He continued to actively lament it, at least, until he recognized a familiar, English drawl innate to the American Midwest—something you're sure not to hear in a country like Japan.
"Hey, man, nice morning we're having, huh?"
The Ung groaned and exhaled rather artificially as he stood up, turning to the speaker. They had an amused look in their eye, noticing the way Soryan fidgeted unwillingly whenever the itch became considerably noticeable. "Oh, piss off, Mitchell. This shit uniform is itchy as Hell." His tone contrasted with the small smirk on his lips.
"Yeah, you're preaching to the converted, dude."
The Cambodian nodded almost gravely to his companion: Mitchell Marlowe. The young American was tall compared to his peers, standing at an even 6'0", a solid six inches taller than most males his age. His hair was a sandy brown, shaved down to a quarter-of-an-inch, and his eyes were an icy blue. His slightly tanned complexion complemented his lean, yet athletic build. His visage was blank, but there was sarcasm in his voice. As the only other native English speaker that he knew, Soryan and Mitchell were quick on befriending one another.
The American was usually quiet around new people, but once he found companions, he showed his true nature; sarcastic but witty—always trying to get a laugh out of his friends. If one of them was in a spot of trouble, he'd be there, no questions asked.
Notably, Mitchell had a passion for motocross before he moved to Japan; he just couldn't do motocross here. Nowadays, he usually found himself spending the majority of his time in his apartment, playing Armored Core or Rainbow Six Siege. The only times he ever really got out was when his friends dragged him out.
Soryan inwardly shrugged. "So… you just came over here just to emphasize my misery? Or do you have news...?" he said, staring. "Ah, I'm just fucking with ya. What's up?"
The American gestured with a slight nod of his head. "Well, you look like a zombie right now so I thought I'd just come over and we could be miserable together. Screw mornings and morning people. Like those two painfully happy souls over there."
The Ung turned his head to see a pair of prancing schoolgirls, their fingers interlocked like a Yuri couple, their hair bouncing in the wind of their stride along with their assets, seemingly defying known laws of physics. Soryan hummed at the sight. "Ah, such camaraderie. Shall we walk hand-in-hand to face the threat that is differential calculus?"
Mitchell grimaced. "Oh God no," he groaned. "There is no time in the day where I look forward to Sir Shido, the Pedo in Pinstripe."
Soryan chuckled mirthfully. "Yeah, that bloody sister-opener is a bogan for sure." He sighed as the smile dropped from his face. "One that I will have to face for the next hour or so. God—one of the subjects I like most is getting fucked by this guy."
"Dude, you better hope that's the only thing he's fuckin', seriously."
Soryan gave a bark of light laughter, even as his friend exhibited a straight deadpan. "Yeah, hopefully…" he frowned. "I saw him eyeing up Takagi the other day. He'd be dead if he tried, though."
Mitchell opened his mouth to respond, but he was cut off by the sudden, loud ringing of a digital bell, signifying that they had a minute left before class started. They stared at each other blankly for a moment.
"Back to the grind, I guess. See ya later, man."
Soryan nodded to him. "Yeah. See ya… Wanker," he smirked, turning away.
"I heard that! Dick!" Mitchell called back. The volume of his voice drew more than a few gazes, though many recognized the owner of said voice to be the resident American of Fujimi academy. Some rolled their eyes, others scoffed to themselves before returning to their own business.
Among them all was one simple thought. 'Typical American.'
Thus, the friends went their separate ways, and the normal daily cycle of Fujimi Academy began once more. Alas, this day would soon turn out to be anything but normal…
VVVVV
Attending class was a simple ordeal. Enter class, sit down, deal with the occasional stare that came with the social stigma of being a foreigner, and get to work. Of course, in this class specifically, beyond taking notes and completing assignments, there were the numerous personas that Soryan derived both disgust and amusement from.
The teacher, Koichi Shido, was a flamboyant man with the facade of a play actor and the eyes of a venomous serpent. His gaze always swept across the room, a constant, well-hidden leer in his eyes that most would overlook, but since Soryan was always bored as hell in his class, he found nothing better to do than survey the characters that surrounded him. And boy was Shido a character.
Soryan often found his own already ever-present glare sharpening whenever he saw the man subtly lick his lips whilst his little group of followers cheered him on whenever class started. The few people that weren't so blind to the man's intentions were one Saya Takagi and one Rei Miyamoto.
Speaking of whom; ah, Takagi, the snooty, prestigious, heiress that was, while undoubtedly intelligent, a stick in the ass at times. Her wrath was naught more than a tidal wave of insults, though, Soryan sometimes found that said insults, while obviously mean and degrading, held some amount of truth in them. Of course, Soryan was also sometimes a target for her insults, but that was mostly because she saw him as competition, or at least he thought—she always sought his grades after tests and whatnot, always trying to one-up him in some manner. The only reason Soryan really ever tried to 'actively' compete with her was so she'd not let loose upon him. Overall, Takagi was a bit of a bitch, but her smarts can't be denied, and her character is certainly interesting. Soryan couldn't say that class would be quite the same without her condescending presence.
Math passed with little hitch beyond the occasional insult by the heiress and the dirty gaze of the serpent, then the next few periods proceeded relatively smoothly—he received his graded physics test, one that Takagi took to scrutinizing.
The young woman stomped over to him, frowning. She harrumphed as she approached. "What did you get this time, Ung."
Said Ung gave no resistance as the girl snatched the graded test from him. She took one look at the large number grade, then gave him a disdainful look. In turn, Soryan took a peek at her grade before she could hide it from him.
They both aced it...
The woman grumbled, tossing the test back to him.
"This isn't over, Ung." Without another word, she stormed off back to her seat. Soryan was indifferent beyond a small pang of annoyance.
After several hours of class, lunch rolled around, and the young Cambodian headed for his friend group's usual meeting spot, speed-walking with noticeable pep as he clutched a lunch bag in hand. Soon, he was outside, and he climbed up a stairwell on the east side of the building where his companions were already waiting for him—his class was at the far end of the school, so he had to haul ass to get there.
Once he arrived, Mitchell greeted him kindly; the American looked him up and down, a look in his eye as he noticed the annoyance in Soryan's own.
"I see you weathered the storm of abuse that was Hurricane Takagi. I've said it once and I'll say it again: I don't envy you having that class."
"Bloody hell, yes," the Ung replied with a groan. "That ankle-biter is going to be the end of me—for real, bro. For real, the 'competition' never stops." He gestured with his fingers.
"Hey! What are you two talking about? You guys know we can't speak English, right?" The two turned and faced the speaker. Kasumi Mizuhara stood before them, hands on her shapely hips as she grinned at them.
The young woman had dark brown eyes and unusually natural blue hair that was absolutely mesmerizing to look at. Its long locks were tied by a yellow ribbon into a ponytail that reached her slim thighs. Two sidelocks branched out like antennae that reached down to her chest. Her body was quite slender and athletic, with thin limbs and a flat abdomen, but her, ahem, 'assets' were… well, massive. They seemed to dance with every slight motion that she made—it was maddeningly difficult not to look at them when Kasumi was talking.
It didn't help that she was a bit of a tease, and she was confident as hell—she'd call you out on your bullshit any day. This didn't mean that she wasn't kind and considerate; she looked out for her friends, that's for sure.
"Well, basically, both the heiress and I aced the physics test and she's given me the stink eye for it," Soryan explained.
"Ah, cool," Kasumi dismissed easily. It was a scenario she'd heard many times before. "Now c'mon. Sit down with us before my food gets cold!" she pressed.
"Yes, please sit. We never seem to have enough time when we are finally able to get together like this," another, softer voice added. The owner of said voice directed a flat look at Kasumi. "And you would understand what they are saying if you paid more attention in English class, Kasumi."
The speaker, Wakaba Otonashi, sat comfortably on one of the steps. The young woman had soft, brown eyes accompanied by long, straight black hair that reached her waist. Two bangs came down to her chest and framed her face perfectly. Her body was slender and hid a surprising amount of strength. Despite her somewhat petite figure, she had pretty large 'assets' herself. Her school uniform did her no favors hiding them from view, much to her chagrin—she'd caught more than a few guys staring at them in the hallways, her friends sometimes included.
Speaking of whom; Wakaba was usually a quiet, reserved girl, but she came to life around her friends. She wasn't afraid to speak her mind either, as all of them could attest; it was always in the best interests of their well being.
Kasumi grimaced as she sat down next to Wakaba. "But it's so difficult though!" she complained. "I can hardly keep up with everything I have to memorize. Why does English have to be so confusing?"
"I agree that some parts don't make sense sometimes, but that's just how it is," Mitchell replied. "I will say that you're genuinely trying at least. You're making good progress with me and Wakaba helping you out." He opened his store-bought bento, giving it a blank look. It wasn't his first choice for a meal, but it was decent enough.
Kasumi waved her chopsticks at him as she opened her much larger, higher quality homemade bento—Mitchell idly eyed it from the corner of his eye. "Yeah, and I seriously owe you two for that. I don't want to be the odd one out between all of us."
"Mhm! I'm happy to help you when you need it. Just keep it up, okay?" Wakaba encouraged her.
Soryan's gaze swept across them, though he said nothing—only nodded self-assuredly to himself. He would like to assist in some way, but he's a shit teacher all things considered.
He pulled out his lunch, then looked at his friends again, specifically at their meals, then towards his own. They all had bentos of some sort—Mitchell had a store-bought one while Kasumi and Wakaba both had homemade bentos. The Ung, on the other hand, had a rather plain-looking guacamole sandwich with a thin slab of turkey in the middle, along with an unripe orange. He grumbled to himself, pursing his lips, but he didn't comment on it.
The group ate silently for a short while, simply enjoying the company of one another, at least, until Kasumi and Wakaba partook in the act of sharing their meticulously crafted home meals.
The boys watched them in silent jealousy as the aromas gently wafted towards them; neither of them were great cooks, so to have such excellent meals showcased to them but beyond their reach was slightly frustrating.
Soryan's eyes lingered on their meals for a while, as did Mitchell's, but soon they were drawn to Wakaba. He recalled seeing a poster between classes, something about…
"Hey, Wakaba," he started. The timid girl paused her ministrations with Kasumi, and they both looked over. "Are you entering into that archery competition? The one in April?"
Mitchell perked up in realization at the mention. "Oh, yeah! I saw a poster about that on the way here. I'm pretty sure you'd dominate if you did."
Soryan silently agreed. He'd seen the young archer practice many times before, and she was a great—nay, near perfect shot. She was the star of the archery club, and even made top five in national last year—it was a wonder how some still chose to bully her for her timid nature.
"Ah, yes, I am," Wakaba smiled warmly. "Yamauchi-sensei is helping me prepare. We'll be training a lot after school. Would you like to come watch me at the competition?"
As if there was ever any doubt.
"Yessir~," Mitchell drawled in that cheeky, American accent of his, a large grin plastered on his face.
Kasumi looked affronted. "Are you kidding? Of course I'll come! We all will. Right?" She gave Soryan a look of inquiry.
The Cambodian nodded. "Yeah. Sure, why not. Gives me a better reason to get out of my dinky-ass apartment than going out for discount Boba on a Saturday."
Wakaba's smile grew. "Thanks everyone. I'll be sure to make it worth your while." She pressed her hands to her heart in an inspiring manner. Unbeknownst to her, the sheer cuteness of her antics pulled at the heartstrings of her companions.
"Yeah, well, don't be surprised if you see somebody waving or screaming your name like a hooligan," Soryan smirked. Wakaba gave a more nervous smile, eyes closed as she sweat-dropped.
"I don't think I like what you're implying, Sor."
"I haven't a bloody clue what you're talking about, mate," Soryan denied, a knowing look in his eye as Mitchell raised a questioning brow.
"I do." Their attention was taken by Kasumi, who had the slightest twinge of a smirk upon her lips. "I remember your loud-ass cheering during my last match against that Miyamoto girl. I mean, Jeez Mitch, I swear your screaming busted my ear drums—I could barely even think then, ya big goob," she teased.
"Oh no you don't—you don't get to use me as an excuse for losing to her," Mitch shot back playfully, waggling a finger.
"Oh, I don't know, Mitchell," Wakaba mused, a hand to her chin as she looked off into space. "You were very… enthusiastic."
Mitchell shrugged. "Can you blame me though? She was kicking ass for a while there." He noticed that the girl in question was suddenly downtrodden. "Hey, you good?" He nudged her.
"Huh? Oh, yeah." Her friends were unsure; It was strange how Kasumi went from teasing him to despondent in a relative instant. Soryan took a guess.
He hummed. "Whatever," he started. "If it's about your loss, then lighten up. Losing in a one on one like that one just means you've got room to improve. Get better, and smash her in the ass next time—that's all there is to it…" He paused. "That came out wrong."
"Bruh, I'm just going to ignore that last part," Mitchell said flatly, eyes lidded. "But he's right. You can only go up from here."
"I agree," Wakaba said. "Your technique and form are excellent, you shouldn't be so hard on yourself."
Kasumi nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right," she replied. "I'll lay off on the self-pity just for you guys."
"See? There you go," the Ung replied. "So anyways, off topic, but uh… anybody got plans Saturday?"
And thus, their relatively normal lunch resumed; they ate and chatted, played with and teased one another. Eventually, class was back in session, and they went their separate ways.
VVVVV
If there was one class that Soryan absolutely loathed above all else, it was history. He didn't want to undermine the subject—he knew that understanding history would be good for him in the long run some way, but it was the one class he could never find an interest in and focus, and as such, Saya excelled farther than him in it which, obviously, led to a torrent of insults in that specific subject.
While he would have loved to simply skip history, he knew that such an action would only be a detriment to his grades. So, there he sat, forehead resting against two fingers, the opposing fingers scribbling notes furiously into a college-ruled notebook, his eyes flicking back and forth between the teacher and his writings. He wasn't really absorbing any memorable information—just jotting stuff down so he could study it later. He acknowledged that it would bite him in the ass, but he couldn't muster up enough enthusiasm for the subject to really care.
At some point, his mind began to wander, and like an idiot, he stopped paying attention. It didn't take long for the teacher to notice.
"Ung-san… Ung-san… AHEM!"
The Cambodian straightened himself at the obviously artificial throat-clear. He looked forward, and much to his displeasure, the majority of the class was staring at him expectantly, the teacher's gaze locked onto his.
"Ung-san… can you tell me the ultimate cause of World War 1?"
Soryan licked his lips. "Uh…Princip and the Archduke, Ushimaru-sensei?"
The teacher gave him a plastic smile. Off to his right, Soryan saw the quirk of Takagi's lips, but he didn't let it bother him. He resigned himself to the bitter lecturing that knew would soon come.
Ushimaru-sensei sighed. "While you're not wrong, it goes much deeper than that. And it wasn't the principle cause of it. If you were paying a bit more attention, you'd know—"
Suddenly, the entrance to the classroom flew open, and everyone turned. A young man stood there, a dangerous look in his eye. Soryan stared at him and followed his gaze; he was looking at Rei Miyamoto.
Ushimaru-sensei was more than displeased. "Komuro… you couldn't just be happy with skipping my class?"
Young Takashi ignored his sensei, and he walked over to Rei, then grabbed her by the arm. His breathing was growing increasingly erratic, and there was a hint of urgency to his voice.
"Come with me," he demanded, pulling Rei from her seat. The young woman yelped. "We're gonna get out of here."
Rei was, understandably, exasperated. "Wha—!? What are you talking about?"
Two other students rose from their seats; Saya and Hisashi Igou. Saya had an angered look about her, a haughty expression on her face, but she said nothing—It was Hisashi that confronted Takashi for his unusual behavior.
"Dude, what are you doing?" he inquired, eyes narrowed.
Takashi regarded him with pressing eyes, and with a calm voice, he spoke. "People just got killed by the front gate—no bullshit."
If Soryan wasn't listening before, he was definitely listening now. Takashi had such a serious, uncompromising expression on his visage that it was impossible to tell whether he was making shit up.
"Are you serious?" Hisashi asked, taken aback.
"Yeah, I'm making shit like that up." Takashi's tone was dripping with sarcasm.
Despite the seemingly genuine feel of Takashi's worry, most seemed not to believe him; students had amused, annoyed, or disdainful looks about them. Soryan wasn't so sure, but he didn't move, as the notion of people spontaneously expiring sounded ridiculous. Evidently, Rei agreed.
The young woman tore her arm from Takashi's grasp, a nasty glare in her eyes. "Jesus!" she shouted. "What's going on!? I can never understand yo—"
There was a loud crack, and Rei's head snapped to the side as Takashi's open palm slammed against it. Hisashi stepped forward, raising his arms instinctively, his eyes widening. Soryan started.
"Fuck me…" he muttered in English. Nobody seemed to hear him.
Rei shook on the spot in pain, then rage. She pressed a hand against her stinging cheek and glowered at her assailant. "Wha—"
"LISTEN!" Takashi roared. "LISTEN TO ME!" Rei was taken aback, and she stood down. Takashi only gave her a frustrated look, then he wheeled on Hisashi, who was still frozen in surprise.
After a moment, when everything went calm, Hisashi's expression became resolute, and he gave a singular nod to the other teen.
"... Let's go." The three left the class without another word, Rei trudging begrudgingly behind them. The entrance slammed shut, then it was silent.
VVVVV
Mitchell Marlowe ran his fingers through a stack of worksheets, mentally tallying the number of packets, and idly noting how thick they were. He chuckled silently to himself, his mind conjuring thoughts about the potential sleepless nights ahead of Kasumi, and the more likely field day that Wakaba would be having.
The young American walked between the rows of students, casually delivering thick packets to weary students, deriving amusement from the horrified looks that dawned upon their faces when they realized that the coming nights would be relentless. As he passed Kasumi's desk, he made sure to slowly hand it to her, an unnoticeable, teasing look in his eyes that only those close to him could spot. Kasumi's jaw hit her desk, then she looked up at her friend, a pleading glint in her eye. Mitchell said nothing, moving past her as he did all the other students.
When he got to Wakaba's desk, the young archer raised her hands to receive her packet in a shy, yet undoubtedly excited manner. On that end, Mitchell made sure to hand her the packet much more gradually than he did all the others. Wakaba snatched it from him, then immediately took to studying its contents.
Once he finished handing out packets to students, he took one for himself, then set the rest down upon Toranosuke-sensei's desk.
"Ah, thank you, Marlowe-san. You may be seated."
Mitchell gave a slight nod to the teacher. "Sure thing, sensei." Then he went to the back of the class where he seated himself down by a window, immediately flipping the English packet open. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kasumi glancing at him every once in a while. He looked over, and he received the same pleading glint in the girl's eyes. He offered an encouraging nod. It seemed to be enough to at least stifle the brunt of Kasumi's worries, because she looked away and stared down at her own packet.
The young American mentally shrugged, then quickly took to his own packet. Only a few minutes passed before he tapped the underside of his packet on his desk, loudly indicating that he'd finished the whole damn thing already. A few students let out exasperated huffs, and a lesser number turned and looked at him, Kasumi and Wakaba included. He only winked at them, a silent promise to aid them later.
With nothing left to do, Mitchell sat there; Toranosuke-sensei didn't like to take up work until it was due. Minutes sluggishly passed, but most were no closer to finishing their packets. Soon, Mitchell's thoughts drifted. Soryan had suggested they do something as a group on Saturday. The Cambodian hadn't really had anything in mind—he was content with something as simple as a walk. Of course, nobody in their circle of friends really had a problem with that—many of their get-togethers were improvised anyways.
It had always been that way, ever since the Ung and the Marlowe first met back in second year. Surprisingly coincidentally, both of their fathers worked in Okinawa. Mitchell's father was the pilot of an MV-22 Osprey stationed in Okinawa while Soryan's was an electrical engineer working for the parent company that supplied Mitchell's father with his equipment. It was how the two first met—their fathers happened to work in some kind of group together, though the details eluded Mitchell.
Soon, they were attending Fujimi Academy together in the same year despite Soryan being a year younger than those around him—the young man had skipped a grade, as he had excelled on the school exams to a superior degree. At first, things were rough for the both of them—it's just how things went when one was a foreigner in a relatively xenophobic country. Mitchell used to lament it, but when he thought back on it, he was actually a bit appreciative; had he not been treated differently, then he never would've met Wakaba or Kasumi.
See, back before Mitchell even first attended the academy, Wakaba had terribly low-self esteem, and as a result, the girls around her bullied her, and she had become an outcast. For a long time, this crushing low self-esteem persisted, and it began to border on depression. When Mitchell first entered into the academy, he noticed fairly quickly—having been treated rather harshly himself, he saw the way that others looked at Wakaba, the way they actively tried to pull her down, and the way the bystanders did nothing but stand and watch. Seeing the way they treated her just because she had low self-esteem—if they were trying to piss Mitchell off, then they were doing a good job of it.
Mitchell hated the idea of being a bystander, and when he searched for an opportunity to change things, he soon found one. Though Wakaba had a dangerously low self-esteem, she seemed to have a genuine interest in the English language—an interest that managed to stifle her dejection. Coincidentally, Mitchell happened to sit next to her in English, and he used that as a means to break the ice; when Wakaba was struggling one day, he offered to help, a warm smile on his lips. Wakaba was cautious at first, but when she saw the American's true intentions, she gratefully accepted his help, and soon, they were friends. Ever since that day, Wakaba's low self-esteem had all but disappeared, and in its place stood a much more confident but still timid young woman.
After a week of interaction, Wakaba excitedly introduced him to Kasumi, the girl that had taken to defending Wakaba from her bullies. Kasumi was an inherently kind and considerate girl, and so they hit it off easily. Not long after, Mitchell introduced Soryan in turn, who easily accepted them as friends, and thus the new group of four became the school outcasts—a demeaning description for sure, but they didn't care.
A year had passed since then, and things have straightened out considerably; they were no longer considered outcasts, just slightly strange individuals. The group couldn't be happier with such a result...
There was a sudden, loud thud on the front door of the room, snagging Mitchell's attention. Other students looked over as well, and the teacher stood from his desk.
"... Come in," Toranosuke-sensei said. There was no response. Only another, dull thud. It was strange sounding, as if somebody was gently banging their head upon it. The teacher grunted. He walked over to the door, and pulled it open. "Hello, how may I—" he gasped, staring in shock.
What happened next struck them all. Without warning, the one behind the door lunged, blurring forward as it growled viciously. It went head first, sinking its teeth into the neck of the teacher, biting down with ravenous vigor. Then, there was red.
Blood spewed forth like a geyser, and in the next moment, Toranosuke-sensei fell backwards, screaming in utter agony as the thing atop him bit down voraciously, tearing flesh like a rabid dog, its hungered groans prevalent.
Students screamed and yelled, scrambling away from the maniac, fear swelling as they leapt from their seats, but some were frozen in shock. Mitchell, too, shot to his feet, but it wasn't the result of simple fear. No—his grandfather's training kicked in, and rather than running away, he stepped forward, grabbing at both Kasumi's and Wakaba's arms and pulling them away, putting as much distance as he could between them and the potential danger before them.
"H-holy shit. What the fuck's happening!?" he cursed in shock. He and his companions watched as the maniac stopped suddenly, then rose from the blood-stained floor, and for the first time, they got a good look at it.
Putrid, greyed skin clung to a shriveled, mangled body that shook unsteadily. Red poured like falls from soulless eyes, crimson staining torn attire. A mutilated tongue lolled from parched, blood-stained lips that always hungered for more. A breath came out as a painful, inhuman rasp, a wheeze of undeath. The thing finally stood to its full height, and as the group stared, horrified by its harrowing appearance, it staggered forward through desks and chairs, beelining right towards them.
Mitchell didn't wait for it. Instinct kicked in, and shock and adrenaline shot through his veins like a powerful drug. Reacting quickly, his hands found the nearest desk chair, and he grabbed it by the legs as he charged forward, grunting as he swung the improvised weapon like a bat, aiming for its head.
Chair met flesh in a violent impact that sent the thing tumbling backwards, blood gushing from the newly formed gash on its head. Mitchell took a deep breath, but further to his shock, the creature was mostly unaffected; it easily rose back to its feet, staggering towards him once more.
Mitchell made to attack it again, but he stopped when his gaze fell behind it. Toranosuke-sensei had stood again, but rather than the friendly teacher he once knew, the sensei's skin had turned a terrible gray, veins bulging near his eyes, and blood pouring from his open mouth and the exposed flesh on his shoulder.
In that moment, Mitchell understood.
"Screw this, we're getting out of here. C'mon!" he urged, turning to his shell-shocked companions. Kasumi snapped out of her daze immediately, but Wakaba continued to stare open-mouthed, terror in her eyes, tears coalescing within them.
Wasting no time, Mitchell hurled the desk chair at the staggering menace to slow it, and he grabbed Wakaba by the wrist, pulling her along as he pushed Kasumi towards the secondary exit. Though it wouldn't do much, Kasumi slammed the door shut once they were out.
"O-Okay, that really just happened. What the hell was that thing?" Kasumi stammered, breathing heavily. "A-And Toranosuke-sensei! He got up and…" she trailed off as her mind attempted to process through her shock.
She barely noticed the dozens of students still pushing towards exits, running over one another—even fighting one another to escape. Mitchell glanced at the traffic, a tense frown on his face. There was no way in hell he'd be able to safely wrestle his way down there—not with the girls in tow.
"We can't afford to worry about that right now. We need to find a secure place first. And it's definitely not here," he said gravely. He looked at his companions, but when his eyes fell on Wakaba, he saw that she was unmoving and, much to his concern, unresponsive. He snapped his fingers repeatedly in front of her eyes "Hey, Wakaba, I know some seriously disturbing shit went down, but we need to leave. That freak is still in there—"
The sound of static reached his ears, and he stopped. It was soon followed by a hurried voice.
"This announcement is for all students…" There was a pause, and a shaky breath. "An emergency situation is taking place inside the school right now. All students must follow your teachers' instructions and evacuate. I repeat! A violent incident is taking place in the school right now—" there was a garble, then more static as a ring indicative of a positive feedback loop ripped at the group's ears. Then, "Urgh! Get away from me! Get back…! Augh! AHHH! HELP! HELP!"
Then the desperate screams came, and the growls of the wicked brought silence upon Fujimi Academy. It was the calm before the storm. Mitchell and Kasumi looked at one another, then to Wakaba, who had broken from her shock when the announcement started.
The silence was all-encompassing, and far in the distance, one could hear a pin drop. Then there was a chorus of screams and yells as students and teachers alike clawed their ways relentlessly from the classrooms, shoving and pushing each other as they filled the hallways and rushed for the exits.
Mitchell eyed the stampede before them. Without a word, he pulled the girls against the wall, and the horde rushed past them, not one of the by-passers giving them so much as a glance. Mitchell grunted as more than a few elbowed him as they ran past. This was going to be a fucking shitshow.
VVVVV
Soryan liked to think that he was a reasonable person, so when a student came barreling into the room rambling about death and murder and whatnot, he chose to stay in his seat on account that it was, well, reasonable to be a bit disbelieving about such an ordeal. But, when he saw the three students leave, soon followed by a confident Saya and a much less confident Kohta Hirano, he had second thoughts. It wasn't until the haunting announcement came that he finally decided to take action.
Like most others, he stood quickly, but when he saw the students rushing for the doors—the way they piled upon one another, punching and kicking, screaming and yelling, he stopped himself. This was mob panic, he realized. In a situation like this there was no use throwing himself against the proverbial tidal wave that was likely flooding the hallways. Although fear plagued his mind, he stabbed at it, holding himself back. It would be at least a few minutes before the halls are cleared, he deduced. The only problem was that he didn't know what the threat was. Was it a shooter? He couldn't tell—he didn't want to believe it, but the principal likely perished, but to what? It didn't sound like a shooter—if it was, then he could be in the shit for staying behind. Being one person in that type of situation meant being only a single target to the perpetrator, and that made their job easier. However, whatever attacked the principal sounded animalistic; it had growled before attacking.
Takashi had said that people had been killed at the front gate, but that was it. No mention of who or what the assailant was.
The Ung let out a shaky breath, watching for a moment as the last few students struggled to fit through the door. He tore his gaze from them, surveying the classroom for anything potentially useful in this situation. As much as it scared him, he realized that it was a possibility he needed to face; someone might attack him, and he would need to fight back.
He made his way to the teacher's front desk, quickly rummaging through its drawers. His hands found something metallic, and he revealed it: a pair of scissors. Fucking hell, it would have to do for now. He searched for more, but the only other thing he found was a rather conspicuous, palm-sized box of strike-anywhere matches and a packet of cigarettes. His eyes widened and he licked his lips, discarding the cigs and ignoring the fact that his teacher had very obviously been smoking illegally, but he stuffed the matches into one of his pockets.
After fidgeting for a bit, he realized that in this situation, his uniform no longer held a purpose—all it did was restrain his movements. He lamented this, removing the itchy coat of the uniform and tossing it aside leaving only a white t-shirt underneath. Using the scissors, he cut away the knees of the uniform's pants, leaving what was effectively a pair of black shorts. Discarding the scraps of clothing, he tested his movements a little. He was free.
Nodding to himself, he noticed that the commotion in the hallways had grown quieter, but when he listened in, he could hear bone-chilling screams in the distance. Screams… and growls. The Ung steadied himself, biting the inside of his cheek and clenching his fists tightly, his eyebrows narrowing into a determined glare. He had to go. He couldn't stay.
Peeking into the hallways, he looked both ways, and to his amazement, he saw nobody. When he was sure that the coast was clear, he stepped out and went on his way to what he thought would be the least travelled area; the side stairs where he and his friends always had lunch. Nobody ever seemed to use them, as their design was inherently flawed—using that staircase was, for the most part, a waste of time due to how secluded it was from the main traffic. Nobody would be using them, he hoped. He idly wondered if his friends were okay.
Shaking such thoughts from his head, he hurried towards its location. Although he was no longer as fit as he used to be—he was a little bit overweight if he was being honest, but not enough to be noticeable—a decade worth of basketball training did his movement and coordination wonders, as muscle memory was slow to fade over time. He was quick on his feet, and light on his toes—near silent as he hurried through the empty halls of Fujimi Academy.
The longer he travelled the more stressed he became; it was unbearably quiet, as if all life around the property had suddenly vanished. He tried not to think about too much, but the reality of the situation became increasingly apparent to him. After a few minutes of weaving through hallways, he approached an intersection.
Then, he heard it. The light, raspy, inhuman wheezing from around the corner. He froze on the spot, eyes widening, and a chill went down his spine as the sound grew closer. Stealthily, he took a few steps back, and out of pure paranoia, he looked behind him. There was nothing there. He focused back on the sound.
Just as he turned his head, its owner stepped into view. The first thing that he noticed was the way it walked; it shuffled about, aimlessly and unsteady. He saw its shriveled gray skin, the pockets of flesh torn from its body, and the sight nearly made him gag, but he studied it further, his shock sustained by the horror before him. Its eyes were a cloudy, soulless white, and blood poured from them like falls. Crimson stained its entirety—from its body, to its face, to the distinct Fujimi Academy uniform that it wore...
The distinct Fujimi Academy uniform it wore...
If it were possible, Soryan's shock grew even more. Seeing the evidence before him, the answer to what was happening quickly became apparent, and though he wanted to deny it, the objective side of him took over, and he relented.
A shambling body? Dressed in a uniform accessible only to students of Fujimi Academy? The soulless eyes? The blood dripping from them? The animalistic groans? Even a blind man would be able to see.
Zombies. Fujimi Academy was being overrun by zombies.
The movies and video games did them no justice; bits of skin and threads of flesh clung to then, jiggling as they shambled, and the grayed skin was so unsightly that even an experienced surgeon would be pressed to avert his eyes.
Soryan took a very slow, very deep breath before exhaling just as slowly to calm the pounding in his chest. Quickly, a plan began to form. His first instinct was to get the hell away from it, but...
The thing was turned away from him. He could try to sneak past it, but he wasn't sure about how sensitive it was. Would it hear him? Feel him? See him? How strong were they? Could they overpower a fully grown man? Evidently they were, if the principal had been killed—infected so quickly.
The scissors weighed heavily in Soryan's hand. He'd slit the throats of chickens before. Would this be the same? He thought about his options. If he could just peek around the corner, he'd be able to see if there were any more zombies. If there were, then going for the kill would be risky. If not, it'd still be risky, but nowhere near as much otherwise.
Resolute, the Ung inwardly nodded, and he crept forwards, taking care to double-check the space in front of him, so as not to make any sounds by stepping on an object. After what felt like minutes, he made it to the corner, and holding his breath, he peered around it. The coast was clear.
He looked back at the shambling zed. It was still turned away from him, looking down at the floor. Swallowing thickly, the Ung crept up behind it, bringing the scissors in both hands. Slowly, carefully, he stood up behind it, raising the weapon. For a moment, he paused, unsure. Then, he cast his worries aside, and he thrust downwards with all of the strength he could possibly muster, a rush of adrenaline shooting through him, his eyes widening.
The strike was anything but clean, the scissors lodging themselves only so far into its head. Without hesitation, Soryan shoved it deeper, all the way down to its handles. The zombie had enough cognizance to groan out a final wheeze before it fell over, dead. As soon as the corpse fell over, Soryan doubled over, heaving. He killed it… It was then that he realized that this wouldn't be the only time. This was going to take some getting used to.
After catching his breath, he pulled the scissors from the carcass with an unpleasant squelch, then continued on his way. Thankfully, the rest of his journey was quieter, at least, until he heard what sounded like combat up ahead. He paused and listened. Among the groans and wheezing, he heard distinct, feminine cries—not cries of terror, rather, the cries of a fighter throwing punches. Soryan recognized it as Kasumi's.
Immediately, he felt an invisible weight lifted from his shoulders, but he didn't forget that she was huffing like a warrior. Breaking into a sprint, the Cambodian rushed to the corridor from which he heard the cries, and soon, he saw them.
His friends—all of them were standing at the other end of the hallway. Mitchell stood at the front along with Kasumi, fierce expressions on their faces as they fought. Wakaba stood behind them, decidedly unsure of what to do.
Silently but powerfully, Mitchell threw himself at a zed's legs, knocking it over his back. The shambler fell face first into the hard flooring, and without hesitation, Mitchell turned and brought down a large fire-extinguisher upon its head. There was a sickening sound—a mix between the vibration of metal, and the crunch of bone and flesh. Unrelenting, the American recovered and swung the metal upwards, knocking an approaching infected in the chin hard enough to crack its teeth and knock it down.
To Mitchell's right, Kasumi gave a mighty cry as she thrust what looked to be a broken mop handle forward, piercing through a zed's eye and right through its brain. She ripped the weapon out, twirling it as her adversary slumped over, and she stabbed forward once more, killing another in much the same way.
Soryan was internally awed by the display of their combat prowess, but he didn't let his amazement hinder him. He couldn't afford to pause or hesitate, he told himself. Rushing to aid them, he brought the scissors to bear. He didn't plan on facing anything directly with these—they were too short, and he risked getting bitten if he missed. However, all of the zombies in this corridor were faced away from him, and since he wasn't the center of attention, he imagined he'd be able to get rid of a few before they turned to him as well.
When he approached the first one, he replicated the ferocity from before, but the motions were different and at another angle. Earlier, adrenaline got the better of him, and the stab had been weak because he hadn't put much thought into it. Now though, he was steadier, and he remembered a few things from Anatomy and Physiology classes back in the States.
When the Cambodian approached the first, rearmost zombie, he struck furiously at the side of its head, aiming directly at the temple where the pterion should be—the softest, weakest part of the skull. The strike met nearly no resistance, and the zed fell forward, killed in an instant.
He didn't stop, rushing towards the next zombie and plunging the weapon deep into its brain. Blood coated his fingers and his clothes, but he ignored it. By the third kill, the Ung realized how little he felt in the act of the kill. It was then that the few remaining zeds turned to him. Soryan was unworried, for they had made a critical error.
As Kasumi and Mitchell finished off the last remaining zombies that targeted them, they turned their focus to the exposed backs of the numerous zeds looking to rip Soryan to shreds. Said zeds didn't make it far.
The spear-user and the American leapt at them, Mitchell letting out huffs as he beat down on the skulls of the unfortunate infected, Kasumi shouting as she thrust her improvised spear forward, piercing flesh and bone. They made short work of the zeds with unspoken teamwork, and after a moment, the corridor was clear.
It was silent, save for the labored breaths of the groups combatants, sweat dripping from their foreheads, their chests heaving up and down as one. For a moment, everyone stared at Soryan in disbelief. He stared back.
"Hey mates…" He breathed, a wave of relief passing over him seeing that his only friends were alive and well. "Hell of day, huh?"
Mitchell breathed heavily, looking his friend up and down. Though he didn't give any indication of it, internally, he was very relieved to see that Soryan was okay. The Cambodian looked into his eyes and seemed to understand this. "Looks like you're thinking ahead with that getup. That's good."
"Huh?" The Ung looked down at himself. "Oh, yeah. I—"
He was cut off as two bodies collided with him, two pairs of arms wrapping around him. He stumbled a bit before recovering, supporting the weight of two bodies. There was a distinct feeling of two pairs of something pleasantly large and soft pressing up against him, and he struggled to understand for only a moment.
"You're okay..." he heard Kasumi whisper. He looked and saw his female friends hugging him tightly, relief in their bodies. Wakaba looked into his eyes, but she said nothing, only smiling warmly.
"Uh… yeah. I'm good," The Ung replied. He immediately felt a sense of shame for the sudden warmth in his cheeks, the way he savored the feelings of their full bodies against his own. "Er…" he searched for words but couldn't find them among the addictive feeling of his friends' assets.
They kept holding him, and he turned his gaze to Mitchell. The American smirked knowingly at him. Soryan couldn't find it within himself to glare. He did, however, realize the hilarious juxtaposition of their situation; there he stood, two wonderfully endowed women hugging him like a teddy bear as they stood among the blood-ridden corpses of a dozen flesh-devouring zombies, the apocalypse likely happening around the city as they embraced.
Eventually, Mitchell gave in and came to the Ung's rescue. "I like that we're having a moment, but my arms kinda hurt from swinging this thing around." Mitchell hefted the fire extinguisher in emphasis. "Y'all wanna move to the side stairs and get out of this hallway?"
Finally, Kasumi and Wakaba pulled away from him, sheepish looks in their eyes as they came to realize that a hallway filled with the blood of the damned wasn't the best place to have an impromptu cuddle session. Soryan licked his lips as he recovered.
He nodded to Mitchell. "Yeah. Let's go."
As one, the group moved, cautiously making their way to the meeting spot.
VVVVV
A/N: So, wrote this cuz I was interested in SI, am narcissistic, and like wish-fulfilment cuz I'm a bastard like that.
Anyways, this fic is a Co-Authored fic written by myself and Seething Abyss. Essentially, we talked about DOOM, got bored, and decided to shake things up by inserting ourselves into a universe and messing shit up because who doesn't want an Isekai?
Also, this 100% an excuse for why I've not been pushing out chapters for Welcome Home, Great Slayer. If you don't like me for that, then fuck you. Just kidding, but also, my content is free and I don't owe you shit so fuck off.
(If you haven't guessed by now, I'm an asshole).
So there's that… Well, I've got nothing else—WAIT.
Me, that is, Sir Yeetus Deletus is taking the alias Soryan Ung.
Seething Abyss is taking the alias Mitchell Marlowe.
Kasumi and Wakaba are OCs and if you don't like that, well, highly unfortunate, don't be a bitch in the reviews. That's all I have to say.
Oh yes, Seething Abyss will partake in dishing out some shameless World War Z references, so if you like shit like that, keep an eye out I guess.
Otherwise… bye I guess.